


the first thing to know

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Modern AU, Wine Forgery AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 18:23:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11995416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: Finwe owns a winery in Napa Valley; Feanor and Finarfin run away and commit fraud and fall in love.





	the first thing to know

The first thing to know is this: Finwë owned a winery. 

It had been in the family for decades. It was the kind of winery that was built to look like a castle, with statues of lions at the gate: impressive, but only in the archaic sense of  _ leaving an impression, _ and the impression was of too much money and not enough taste. Finwë called it a hideous eyesore of a place, affectionately when he was in a good mood and bitterly when he was in a bad one. 

The surrounding land was beautiful, the rolling hills striped with grapevines like they had been run over with a fine-toothed comb and the sky silver in the mornings and clear blue in the afternoons, and in the evenings the air and the light and whole land was glowing golden. Fëanáro hated it, and had hated it for as long as he could remember — the sunsets were beautiful, but there were no libraries. 

 

The second thing to know is this: Their family was never a happy one, not before the remarriage and certainly not after. 

Míriel would always be Finwë’s first and truest love, and Fëanáro would always be his first and favorite child; Arafinwë and Nolofinwë only existed because one child was not enough, and Finwë had only married Indis because he was lonely, and this would always be true and it would always be salient. 

It was no easier for Fëanáro. He would never have been happy in Napa Valley, but living with what was to him a constant reminder that he would always be the favorite but he would  _ never be enough —  _ of course he left. What else would he have done, the brilliant child who looked around at pastoral scenery and wanted something he could  _ build, _ who loved his father and hated everything associated with him? What else would anyone have done? 

 

The third thing to know is this: They were not any happier for Fëanáro’s absence. Nolofinwë loved the beauty of the place, loved the sun over the combed hills and loved how clearly you could see the stars, and Arafinwë loved nothing at all about his father’s home. 

If Nolofinwë had not been there to inherit the place, possibly Arafinwë would have stayed. Probably he wouldn't have. But it is impossible to say, and not relevant in any case; the important thing is that at the age of eighteen Arafinwë went to an art school in Boston, and never came back to California. 

What else would he have done, the sweet, shy child who hated speaking to his father’s guests, whose family valued skills he did not have and cleverness he had not yet grown into? What else would anyone have done? 

 

The fourth thing to know is this: The world is not as large as it seems. 

Fëanáro lived in an apartment in Boston; Arafinwë was jumping from roommate to roommate. They found each other at a bookstore and they got coffee together and talked and talked, and they fit together better than either of them had fit with any of the rest of their family. 

They moved in together. Arafinwë’s paintings hung on the walls. And after six months they spoke of their father, and their brother, and their father’s business, and Fëanáro said, “You know what, fuck all of them, I have a better idea.” 

 

The fifth thing to know is this: It is so  _ very _ easy to lie to wine connoisseurs. 

Fëanáro created their fakes, and Arafinwë sold them; they were blends of cheap old wine and good new wine, in old bottles with new labels and five-year-old corks. They claimed to have inherited their father’s love of the craft, claimed any number of things. 

Their last name helped. Their skill helped more. It's almost impossible to guess beforehand how a wine will age, and wine snobs are especially prone to bias, and both Fëanáro and Arafinwë were raised knowing how to move in this world they despised. 

“Did you know,” Arafinwë said, sprawled out on their bed, when they'd had enough to drink that the world had gone warm and soft around the edges, “there were more bottles of 1945 Mouton drunk at its fiftieth anniversary than were ever produced in the first place?” 

And Fëanáro did not in fact know that but he pressed into the warmth of his Arafinwë’s side and he tipped his head back and laughed and laughed. 

 

The final thing to know is this: They thrived. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I live in wine country and I hate Napa Valley just as much as Feanor does. It's where interesting people go to die. 
> 
> 2\. Finwe's winery, the tacky eyesore of a fake castle? That's a _real_ winery, and I drive by it whenever I want to go anywhere to the north, and I make fun of it every time I pass by. If you happen to run it - sorry? 
> 
> 3\. Here are some links:  
> newyorker.com/magazine/2007/09/03/the-jefferson-bottles  
> vanityfair.com/culture/2012/07/wine-fraud-rudy-kurniawan-vintage-burgundies


End file.
